


Let Me, Just One Last Time?

by alexabarton



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Infidelity, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Multiple Partners, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3348719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexabarton/pseuds/alexabarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He stared at the number on the screen, the one with no identifier, and asked himself again why he couldn't just delete it and forget, even though he knew that was useless, because five years had passed and there wasn't a single day when he hadn't thought about him, if only for a moment....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me, Just One Last Time?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my homage to the brilliant new Russel T. Davies programme, Cucumber, about the trails and tribulations of gay sex and relationships today.I don't know how widely available it is yet outside the UK, but if you get the chance, watch it, it's brilliant!!
> 
> And a warning about John here - I would never normally write him as a dick, but the narrative called for it, so forgive me just this once, please!

 

 

The walls were just a stud partition, a thin layer of plaster board and nothing else, four walls and a ply-wood door to seal off his small part of the vast open room, the third floor of an illegal warehouse conversion.

There was nothing to hide the noise he made, any noise from a fart to a sneeze. Everyone could hear every damn thing. Privacy was non-existent.

Not that he gave a fuck. The only type of fuck he ever gave was the one he was giving now, hard and fast and dirty, the frame of his cheap bed protesting under the onslaught doing his best to fuck the bloke through the wall, a random he’d just met at one o’clock in the Costa where he worked. He’d asked for a Chai Latte and Sherlock’s number. His shift had ended thirty minutes later, in twenty they were back at the flat, and now they were here, in his room. It was now half-past two.

Every sound was amplified, the tearing off of clothes, jingle of a belt buckle, swish of denim against skin as it slid down his thighs. The rip of the condom wrapper, that slightly tacky sound when he rolled it down his cock and the snap of a cap of lube, the slick liquid drizzling down between squirming arse cheeks.

“Ahh…uhh”

He pushed in, inch by inch, long muscled legs hoisted up over his shoulders as he wriggled and rolled his hips a little to bury himself balls- deep. He paused, arms quivering with the effort to hold his body up, and took a moment to admire the tangled curls of pubic hair, black against blond, pulling back just a little then in and back again, mesmerised by the slide of his cock inside the body underneath him.

Sherlock snapped his hips forward hard, quickly building up the rough, driving rhythm he needed, in and out, skin slapping skin with sweaty smacks like whip-cracks in the echoing space.

Greg was in. He’d already banged on the door three times, complaining like the bitter, frigid old man that he was when the glass with his contacts in jumped clean off the sink-top after a particularly vicious well-timed thrust.

Sherlock knew he would be there, ear against the wall with a fist in his mouth and a hand down his pants, getting off on every whimper, and every moan. So he fucked harder, aiming with precision and even though his muscles screamed in protest he grasped the bobbing cock before him in a sloppy grip and wanked like a champion, double-time, keeping up the pace until he felt the warm splash of come on his chest and clenched hand.

Only then did he let go himself, riding the waves of his latest fuck’s orgasm, as their clenching muscles tipped him over the edge towards that deep sense of calm that only happened after he came.

And Greg would be there the whole time, tugging on his sad middle-aged dick while he pictured Sherlock’s come-face, something he was under the strictest instructions to never, ever do.

Let him, that was as close as he was ever likely to get.

The next shift at Cream Bar didn’t start till seven, but post-fuck cuddling wasn’t his thing, so he pulled out and rolled over, the condom sliding off and tied in a knot with practised ease. His aim was off and it missed the bin, splatting wetly against the concrete floor instead.

“Can I see you again?”

“Er…”

“Paul…my name’s Paul”

Hmm, nice body, excellent arse, pretty good fuck, likes it hard, a definite yes.

“Yeah, just text me. Afternoons are best, I work six nights a week”

 _“You bloody well owe me a new pair, I can’t find the other one_ ”, the voice vibrated through the flimsy wall.

Christ that man was annoying.

 _“Fuck off Greg_ ….….just for hook-ups though I’m not up for long term.”

He smiled, remembering to let it reach his eyes. Apparently that looked more genuine.

And just to show this meant something, even though it didn’t, he kissed him. A long slow snog with tongues and a little bit of biting.

_“You do realise I can hear you in there?”_

“What? No! Oh shit…pardon me for having a sex life…wear the fucking earplugs if you find it that offensive….dear me Greg, was that the sound of you sad-wanking?”.

“Should I go?”said Paul, casting nervous glances at the partition wall, the sole flimsy barrier between them and his pissy old flatmate, “ I mean, if there’s some sort of problem here?”

“No, no problem, he’s just a Grade- A cunt” Sherlock sighed, standing up to pull his boxer’s back on, wobbling a little as he tried to hook his foot through the other leg-hole “….shower?”

 

~*~

 

Sherlock strolled down the road, hair still damp and messenger bag bobbing against his hip. Paul had left an hour ago but only after a fuck in the shower and some half-naked humping in the kitchen to raise Greg’s blood pressure to a critical level. He wasn’t that bad, not really, Sherlock just found his buttons far too easy to push and he could be a dick like that when he wanted too, just for the hell of it.

It was best to avoid the town centre mid-afternoon, so he cut a left at the bottom of Market Street to cut through Waitrose carpark and avoid the tailback of Mummy Wagon’s on the school run as he made his way to the Central Library to study, distracted by the horror of generic dance music on his I-Pod. Some dick had been messing with the files again.

“Sherlock?....Oh my god it is you!”

Shit. If there was ever a voice he didn’t want to hear it was this one.

For reasons

. “Oh…er…hi Mrs Watson”

“Oh god, don’t call me that, it makes me feel bloody ancient, just Mary is fine….how’s college, how’s your mum, I’m back on the committee but I haven’t seen her yet….she is fine isn’t she?”

“Yeah…just on holiday…The Cotswold’s” he mumbled, pulling out his earplugs , hoping upon hope she was here by herself and not with him.

Please God that I don’t believe in, just let him not be here.

He hovered, weighing up how rude it would be to just make his excuses and leave.

“Do you have some spare time, half an hour? John’s going to be over the moon to see you, jesus, how long has it been ,four years?”

“Five”

“Really? Christ….yeah I suppose it must have been…Daisy has just turned four and Poppy’s two in March”.

What the actual fuck? They had kids. With flower names. He knew they’d got married, about two months after he’d left school. There were a lot of snarky comments floating around at the time, how Mr Watson knocked-up the English Lit teacher and married her in a quickie wedding before the bump started to show, and if that was true then he must have been shagging her before he left which meant….Fuck.

He really couldn’t handle this. Mary was bad enough but two little baby Watson’s? No. Just no.

“There he is, look….once you let him loose in the toy department he’s gone for hours….just a big kid really, but you remember that don’t you?....JOHN!” Mary waved madly at a figure just merging through the automatic doors. He was pushing a toddler in a bright red buggy with one of those clip-on skate board things on the back, a tiny blonde-haired child clung onto the handles as he raced along making engine noises while she squealed in delight.

Sherlock felt ill. But he had to give him credit, the smile barely faltered as he approached, only one slight hesitation in his step as their eyes met, a muscle in his cheek jumping a little with the strain of holding a neutral expression. She didn’t have a fucking clue.

“Hello Sherlock”, he said, with a falsely bright, rictus grin, knuckles turning white where they gripped the handles of the buggy.

Christ he looked old, it was easy to see from here, the hair turned grey around the temples and sides, slicing through the layers of blond. There were creases around his eyes too, even worse than they had been before – how old was he now? Forty? Forty one?

“Hello Mr Watson”

“John…just John…we’re not in school anymore, well I am, you’re not, I know it’s bloody weird seeing us teachers out of our natural habitat….you look good…I swear to god you’re even taller than I remember…how long?”

Bastard. As if you didn’t know.

“Five years…. I was just reminding your _wife_ ….sir…it seems I owe you some belated congratulations”.

Mary was busy with her head bent down, leaning into the back seat of the car for a baby-bag of nappies and wet-wipes and god knows what other paraphernalia small children seem to need. Good. She wouldn’t want to see this.

John dropped the fake smile and stood with his jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut and breathing in hard through his nose. Sherlock couldn’t be sure which of the words, ‘wife’ or ‘sir’ had hit home more. Finally, John nodded to himself, a quick little bob of the head that said, right, I’ve got this now, I’m not going to crack, not here, not again. He blew out through pursed lips and smiled, this time it even came off as genuine.

“So…Sherlock….coffee? “ Mary’s disembodied eternally breezy voice broke through the charged atmosphere, “John was just on about you the other day, wondering what you’re doing now…so you can humour the old sod and put him out of his misery”.

She popped back up again and shut the car door with a click, hoisting the bag up on her shoulder as she turned to look at him.

He wanted to, but he didn’t, a sick masochistic need. The whole situation just too fucking weird, the wife the kids, it was a bad, bad idea….

“Yeah okay”

Right, now it was open for debate which of them was the bigger idiot.

 

~*~

 

“So what happened to Uni?…You were my bloody star pupil and the next thing I heard you’d dropped out after first year…What happened?” John nursed his latte in one hand, running his thumb over the handle.

You, Sherlock thought, that’s what happened. And too many late nights, too many drugs, and too much fucking around.

 

***

 

‘ _Could you stay behind a minute Sherlock? There’s one or two points I’d like to go through with you about your exam’._

_‘Yes sir, am I in trouble sir?’_

_‘No, why would you think that? Nothing to worry about, I just think you need something a little more advanced to stretch you’._

_Someone behind him sniggered._

 

***

 

He shrugged. The disaster that had been his Uni experience was over. Now he made his own way, working two jobs to pay his way through Art College when his parents had point blank refused to fund it, claiming it was just another massive waste of time, and when was he ever going to grow the hell up and settle down. But he was happy as things went, doing what he wanted when he wanted to, no commitments or ties.

Shit, he was only twenty-three, and not quite ready to succumb to the suburban middle-class nightmare. Sherlock doubted he ever would be. John already had, apparently.

“Such a shame though”, said Mary, and he scowled. What the hell gave her the right to pass judgement, Mrs Shotgun Wedding Watson? The biological clock must’ve been ticking away like a fucking metronome, and she probably poked holes in all the condoms. John had always insisted, safety first and all that. “Sorry…if you’re happier now…it doesn’t really matter about anybody else”, she looked away a little awkwardly.

 

***

 

_‘Do you have a girlfriend yet Sherlock?’_

_‘No sir’_

_‘Oh come on, a good looking lad like you, I thought you’d be beating them off with a stick by now’_

_He shrugged, cheeks red with embarrassment as he stared at his test paper on the bench in front of him and tried not to notice Mr Watson licking his lips, and the hand on his shoulder._

_‘Oh right…boyfriend then?’_

 

***

 

“Shit and bugger…oh god sorry Daise, sorry…”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the first little Watson, currently drenched in blackcurrant juice from a sippy- cup, the lid of which John had just blatantly loosened seconds earlier. He mopped ineffectually at the stain with a bunch of napkins from the dispenser on the table as Mary clicked her tongue in irritation.

“Here, let me…I’ll take her to the ladies and dry her vest under the hand-blower, just pass me that carrier bag with the new dress in it…she’ll just have to wear it now…Jesus John, I can’t bloody take you anywhere can I?”

Mary got up from the table and squeezed past his chair to the other side. She helped Daisy down from the seat next to John and bustled off towards the ladies room with a Marks and Spencer carrier bag and a dripping wet child. Poppy ignored the whole thing, munching happily on the biscotti that had come with Sherlock’s coffee.

“That was deliberate”.

“No”, John protested weakly, “Mary could have changed her easily at the table, she thinks I want to talk to you about the Chemistry course…try and talk you into going back, and it’s half true because you should you know, you were brilliant, still are. Christ” Sherlock watched as his fingers gripped the tables edge, turning white, “I can smell that space between your legs….the stink of it…you”.

The blood drained from Sherlock’s face, and he looked down, heart pounding at his own denim-clad groin beneath the table. He was too hot and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

 “I have the biggest fucking hard-on right now…do you?”

John was biting his lip, but the tremor Sherlock heard in his voice had nothing to do with nerves.

“No”

“Liar”

It was like looking at two completely different people, the image shifting and changing before his eyes. John was smiling now, at him, but not at him and holding out the second biscotti for Poppy, laughing as she made a grab for it with sticky hands and wiping chocolate smears off her chubby cheeks. It was surreal, like some sort of fucked-up trip, the bad kind.

“You’re married, you have a wife and two kids now, we ended it remember?”

Stupidly, all he could think of to do was to state the obvious. There were no words for this thing that was happening right before his eyes. It had been too long, five years, which seemed like half a lifetime to him, just the remnants of a hazy dream floating on the edges of his consciousness, but it was useless to pretend he wasn’t tempted. It had always been John and it would never be over, not really.

John closed his eyes and dipped his head down a little, the remnants of a shredded napkin in his lap, “I want to split you in two” he said, looking up at last. His eyes had gone dark now, a bare rim of iris around the black hole of the pupil. Sherlock noticed these things. He also noticed himself, heart-hammering and cock hard, as he pictured it…what John could…no….would do to him.

“Can I fuck you, will you let me….just one last time?”

“What? We can’t…now?”

“You live here Sherlock, there must be somewhere you can think of….your flat?”

“No”, he snapped back quickly. Not there. That was his. He couldn’t let John invade his world in that way again, he had to keep something back that was just his.

“Well there must be a toilet, a corner somewhere…think!”

Mary was on her way back, the shrill tones of her voice slicing through the idle buzz of chatter around them, pitched a bit higher as adults always pointlessly do when talking to a small child.

John made a grab for the phone in Sherlock’s hand and frantically punched in a number, “Follow me?” he hissed, and Sherlock nodded dumbly. He picked up his cup and took a swig of cold coffee, just to hide his face from Mary, sure that his guilt must be written there.

 

***

 

_Mr Watson leaned forward slowly, inching his way, stealing body space in increments. Sherlock shivered at the contrast of warm breath on cool skin just behind his ear as he tilted his head to the side and waited for soft lips to make contact. He was sweating, and his chest felt tight as fingertips stroked in slow soothing stripes along his forearm, the skin erupting into goose-flesh underneath. The kiss came later and it was better, more familiar…a hot tongue pushing at the spread of his lips to part them, a click of teeth when he couldn’t quite get the angle right. But Mr Watson didn’t mind. He was here to teach, and Sherlock was here to learn._

 

***

 

The square outside was crowded when they left the café to go their separate ways, Sherlock to the library and John and Mary to the carpark to collect the car. His phone buzzed in his hand and he read the words with a thrill of excitement.

  _‘Give us a minute to get ahead – then follow, I’ll find somewhere, let you know x_ ’

Fuck. Sherlock’s nerves were jangling. He toyed with the half-empty pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket, desperate for something to just take the damn edge off. All this, it reminded him of all the sneaking around they used to do, empty classrooms, the supply cupboard at the back of the gym, the fucking staff lounge at one point, anywhere and everywhere and no-one ever caught them, not once.

There had never even been any rumours. Sherlock kept his head down, the word got around he was ace and no-one even questioned it, and John had Mary on standby as a beard, the occasional dinner date or trip to the cinema, which had turned out to be a much more in the end.

Sherlock wondered when it had started, if John had slept with her while he was still sleeping with him. That was certainly the way it looked.

_Market Square x_

Sherlock moved off, no longer able to see them but trusting in the directions he’d been given. John would make an excuse to nip off and meet him, and Mary would wave him off with a smile and a peck on the cheek and tell him not to be too long on his mysterious errand that couldn’t wait.

Sherlock checked his phone again.

_Exhibition Square x_

He reached the road just as the lights turned red and dashed across earning a filthy look from an old man in an electric motor scooter with a basket on the front.

_Museum, second floor men’s room x_

Sherlock looked up at the vast Georgian building in front of him. He leapt up the steps two at a time, trying not to think too hard about what he was about to do and guilt-trip himself out of this.

It was just sex after all, just one last time John had said, then they would part and it would just be another memory to add to all the rest, another notch on the bedpost.

 

***

 

_Sherlock buried his face in the crook of his arm. His lips were pressed tight to stifle the sounds that he just couldn’t stop anymore, desperate moans and gasps as a heavy body pressed him down into the chipped varnished table top. A hand worked between his legs, two fingers pumping relentlessly in and out of his arse while his dick lay trapped and rigid underneath him, twitching helplessly with every thrust. He was close, just from this, but he had to hold on, wanted to. He gasped as the fingers withdrew, legs trembling as he waited for the first press against his entrance, lube dribbling in a slick trail down his inner thighs. The wide stretch and burn made his stomach clench and his nails scrabbled for purchase on the wooden surface, the size of it, so big, filling him up inside. He lifted his head, and just as the scream reached his lips a firm hand clamped down over his mouth to stifle it as he came. Sherlock didn’t mind. He smiled at the whispered ‘I love you’ pressed to the back of his neck._

 

***

 

He could hear the hand-dryer whirring as he approached, and though of Mary, drying a tiny vest stained with blackcurrant under the warm flow of air and knew in that instant he couldn’t. Not like this.

The door would open and there he would be, waiting, checking the coast was clear before they ducked into a cubicle for a quickie up against the wall while his wife and kids waited in the car, maybe with the engine running.

Sherlock thumbed through his phone, one eye still fixed on the toilet door as he fired off a text or two. If it opened now he might crumble, best move, go home, he could be there in twenty.

The phone buzzed in his hand twice, he looked down, smiled and walked away.

 

~*~

 

He was sweating slightly when he got back to the flat, slotting the key in the big iron door. It always got stuck so he gave it a shove, announcing his arrival with a metallic clang as it bounced off the brick wall. Greg was standing at the top of the stairs harassed and indignant, watching as two young lads helped themselves to the last of his beers in the kitchen and sauntered back to the living space to flop down heavily on the sofa as if they owned the place.

Greg was all about territory and boundaries, Sherlock could feel the hostility flow off him in waves.

“They said”, Greg began, jerking his thumb to the sofa, “they were invited, by you…and to wait if you weren’t back…please tell me it’s some sort of fucking joke?”

“Nope”, he said, yanking his bag over his neck as he brushed past.

“You got stuff?” Bloke number one waggled a bottle of lube. “Good enough….is Vic in?” he said, rounding on Greg again, as he stripped off his jacket and threw it over the back of a kitchen chair. A head of close-cropped sandy hair appeared around the bathroom door as it opened wide, releasing a cloud of steam. Vic stepped out, a towel slung low on his skinny hips.

They didn’t do it often, fucking your flatmates never ended well and Sherlock liked this place to much to risk it on something like this, but today he would make an exception, and Vic would say yes like an eager little puppy always desperate for attention from the cool kids.

“You got balloons?” he asked.

“Yeah why?”.

He rolled his eyes.

“Oh right, sorry, just a sec”.

Vic ducked into his room and reappeared with a jumbo box of Durex. You had to admire his optimism.

“What about him” bloke two said, looking Greg over while he stood there mouth gaping open like a fish. Three months he’d been here, ninety days since he’d knocked on the door begging for somewhere to sleep after he and his boyfriend had had a domestic and Greg had walked out with a bag of clothes and his wallet. No shags in all that time, he must be climbing the walls listening to Sherlock banging away nearly every night of the week, different faces drifting through the flat half-dressed almost on a daily basis.

But this was extreme even for him.

“Ignore him”, he snapped unkindly, just wishing Greg would stop staring him like that, “he’s just a sad old man that we make pay the rent cause he won’t fucking leave”.

Vic tossed the box at him and he caught it one-handed, “Well?” he said, looking at him expectantly, “you coming in or what?”

Vic couldn’t move fast enough, he was practically a blur as he bolted into Sherlock’s room, whipping the towel off before he even made it through the door.

“Earphones Greg” Sherlock said, just before he slammed it shut.

 

~*~

 

It had been three days. Three days since the foursome, and the screaming argument with Greg that night about the noise and the mess and the gaping hole the headboard had made in the wall when it finally broke through after the abuse of one too many fucks.

Three days since he’d necked the rest of the vodka and got so pissed he refused to go outside or open the window when he’d wanted a smoke, setting the alarm off.

Three days since he’d puked in the kitchen after Vic made a curry from some dodgy chicken off the back of a van down the market and struggled in to work anyway, stomach heaving at the smell of stale alcohol and the disinfectant Joe made him use to clean out the urinals before the late night crowd stormed the place.

Three days since he last saw John.

He stared at the number on the screen, the one with no identifier and asked himself again why he couldn’t just delete it and forget, even though he knew that was useless, because five years had passed and there wasn’t a single day when he hadn’t thought about him, even if only for a moment.

_I need to see you._

His heart began to hammer when he pressed send and a sick feeling spread from his gut and up his chest at just the thought of it, the buzz when it reached him, his face when he saw who it was from.

Sherlock didn’t expect an answer, not really. There’d been no word since he bailed on Monday and that was okay because this was how it worked, Sherlock made the move and John chose whether or not to respond.

It hadn’t started off like that of course, but it didn’t take long to get him hooked, the sex only ever part of it and still the best he’d ever had.

Mr Watson had taught his lesson well.

But now the ball was in John’s court, and all he could do was wait.

The answer came quickly, just three words – _Delete this number_ , which was ridiculous really. John would know it was in his head now where it couldn’t be erased, so what was even the point? Restraint had never been Sherlock’s strong point and neither had playing by the rules so he tapped out another:

_Fuck you – I know you want it, flat 3, Shawcross Road, 7pm x_

His phone remained stubbornly silent after that, but that was okay because it wasn’t an outright no and at least that meant he was thinking about it, even if he was a dick for making him sweat, besides he knew how to fill in the time – there was a little surprise he needed to prepare.

The bedroom was a mess. He’d done his best to patch up the wall, moving the bed to the other side and pushing the chest of drawers over instead to cover the worst of it. Vic had loaned him a tool kit, and he’d spent a dusty hour down on the floor tightening all the screws in the bedframe with an old Ikea allen key left over from when they first moved in until it stopped swaying alarmingly when you sat on it.

He even changed the sheets, deciding the old ones were sporting far too many questionable stains, and then, finally he reached behind the wardrobe, into a space barely wide enough to fit his skinny arm and drew out an A1-size black Art Portfolio.

Placing it on the newly made bed, he slid the zip around and flipped it wide. The work from his Foundation Course was crammed inside, charcoal sketches, life drawings in ink and bits of old canvas painted with acrylics and varnished until it crackled like glass. A year’s worth of work stuffed out of sight but too full of meaning, too much a part of himself to ever throw away.

Right on the bottom, tucked safe beneath a layer of tissue were a series of drawings, a graphic novel in loose leaf, ten full pages of explicit gay pornography, and every single frame of it was real.

He should know, because he’d lived it, it was him and Mr Watson from the very first time until the day he’d finally had enough and found the courage to end it. But he couldn’t part with these, they were all he had left, and he would show him, so he could see how much it had all meant…and still did.

Vic had some blu-tack, so he knicked it from his room and spent ten minutes carefully tacking the drawings above the bed in chronological order. And then it was six-thirty and there was no more time to think as Sherlock grabbed his towel and headed for the shower.

 

~*~

 

Greg answered the door. He had just come in himself and still had his coat on, collar turned up against the wind and rain that had battered the building for most of the afternoon. Sherlock was still in the bathroom, nervously styling his hair again, the steam from the shower had turned his curls into a frizzy halo that made him look like a cherubic choir-boy, which was not quite the look he was aiming for.

When he finally emerged in a cloud of deodorant and aftershave John was leaning back on the sofa with a beer in his hand, talking rugby and weirdly, politics with Greg, as if he’d known him for years, like someone’s fucking dad. Which when Sherlock thought about it, he actually was now.

Greg raised an eyebrow at him as he hovered, nervously, already noticing how much effort he’d gone to, rather than the usual which was a big fat zero. Most men were lucky if he’d washed his pits and bits before a fuck and no-one had ever turned him down anyway despite the questionable personal hygiene. He glared back, just daring the fucker to say something, and John, catching his eye, smiled and cleared his throat.

“Are you ready?....Shall we?”

Sherlock nodded, wandering over to his bedroom door and turning to wait as John stood and walked across the space towards him. His palms were sweating, the only outward sign of nerves as he ushered him silently in and closed the door behind them, blocking Greg’s view when he craned his neck to peek inside.

He spun around and watched, holding his breath as John stood still at the foot of the bed, hands crossed behind him at the base of his spine as he stared at the drawings open mouthed.

“What do you think?”

“They’re incredible, Christ Sherlock I knew you were good but….fuck….you shouldn’t have used my name though”.

“Why not?, No-one else will ever see them, I only did it for us. Do you remember, David Turner, he was just eleven when I guessed and Gary Miller was thirteen when everyone knew he was gay. But they were out, and nobody cared, and even though I was getting ten times the sex that they were I had to keep it secret. I couldn’t tell anyone, all because of you and what we were doing together”.

He moved in closer, defiant.

“Yeah?”, said John, “And just how many times have you wanked over them in the last few years?”

“Thousands”, because that was true too, and even when he couldn’t see them with his eyes he still had his imagination.

John caught him around the waist and stared into his eyes with a burning intensity which made his breath catch. He pulled Sherlock forward, fingers toying with the buckle on his jeans, just resting there gauging the reaction first before shoving two fingers down hard past the denim barrier and pressing them into the base of his cock. Sherlock jerked and then settled, pushing back into the pressure and sliding his left hand around John’s back while he unpicked the buttons of his shirt with the other.

It was a slow tease, the tension in the air palpable as John worked his cock through the fabric of his underwear, thumbing over the glans and spreading the leaking pre-come down the shaft while using his free hand to undo his belt and pull the zip down to free him.

He pushed the denim down, and the cool waft of air on his thighs was like a dam breaking, as lips mashed together in a frenzy of tongue and teeth and five fucking years of needing this again, brought to its inevitable conclusion. John was laughing, and Sherlock was too, pulling off clothes and desperate to be naked, on each other like horny animals in mating season.

Sherlock fell back on the bed, and scrabbled around on the chair at the side for a condom and the lube from Monday night, throwing the foil packet at John and hoisting his legs up already until his calves were resting against broad, tan shoulders. John ripped the pack with his teeth, and Sherlock poured the lube, too impatient to wait now for John to roll the rubber down his cock, pushing a finger into himself and baring down, biting his lip at the first eye-watering sting. It had been much too long and he was going too fast, working up to three too quickly as he tried so hard to relax himself enough for John to enter him, still too tight when he pulled them out but past caring, even when the pain made him cry out, as John held his hips still and pushed.

“Are you okay?”

Sherlock nodded, stroking a hand up the length of his cock to bring it back to hardness. John pulled back and slammed forward again, shoving him up the mattress a little. He winced, the feeling still on the wrong side of uncomfortable, but getting there, a warm tingle spreading through him.

It made a change, he wasn’t usually on the receiving end, not anymore. After John he’d gone top, anything else made him feel too vulnerable, and he hadn’t found anyone else he trusted enough to try and bottom.

He pulled John down for a messy kiss, the back of his thighs burning with the strain of the position, unfamiliar now.

“I want to fuck you”, he said, because he did, wanted the tight hot grip of that hole around him as he turned the tables , and the pupil became the master.

John moaned into his mouth, chasing the words from his tongue. Sherlock broke away, holding John’s face between his palms, demanding his full attention again.

“I want to Fuck. Your. Arse.”

John pushed himself up and rocked back on his heels, scrubbing a hand across his face in a mixture of arousal and growing frustration. The change in mood was instant, the charged air and electric crackle of an imminent fuck was gone, replaced by resignation and a growing sense of disappointment at something lost, something they could never recapture.

“That’s not what we do” John said, pulling his cock out fast enough to make Sherlock hiss with the sudden sharp sting.

“It doesn’t make you weak you know” Sherlock said, propping himself up on his elbows and flexing his toes to get rid of the pins and needles that prickled along his legs, “I mean, being fucked…it doesn’t make you any less of a man if you take a cock up the arse”.

“Just don’t Sherlock”.

“No? Why am I the one who has to lie on my back every time, or on all fours, while you just expect me to shut up and take it like a good little boy?”

The retort came quick and sharp, “Well you never complained before”.

Sherlock sighed, “Just forget it okay? We tried and it didn’t work”.

“I’m sorry Sherlock, I think this was a mistake”, John hopped down off the bed, shirt still half-on, and rooted around on the dusty floor for his missing pants and jeans.

“I am too old for you now sir, is that it?”, Sherlock said, leaning back against the headboard, not bothering to cover up yet, cock still at half-mast as the arousal slowly dissipated. It wouldn’t even warrant a wank this time, the feeling had already passed.

“Who’s the new boy then, the one who benefits from Mr Watson’s extra tuition?”

He was baiting, he knew that, and John was just too self-aware not to guess.

“What? No…there is no new boy Sherlock…it was only ever you”.

He could tell by John’s eyes and the slump of his shoulders, even with his back half-turned that the words were genuine. John always had been so hard to read and impossible to fool, that was why they had worked so well, despite the seventeen year age difference. The chemistry had been there, right from the start, and it was still there, but maybe too much had happened to go back now.

“So why?”, he asked, “Why the wife and kiddies and the boring sensible car and identikit house John? That isn’t you, the real you…it can’t be”.

Because if it was, if that was who John had always been, he didn’t know himself anymore, he didn’t know anything.

He reached for his phone and switched it to camera, pressing down just as John turned a little towards him, a perfect profile of his cock and bare arse.

“What the fuck are you doing?....Did you just take a picture?”

“Just a souvenir”

“We agreed, no pictures, no texts and no e-mails, that’s how it works”

“Worked”, his tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth on the final letter, “You set the rules, I just followed, but it’s clearly over, so I’m just taking a small reminder”.

John glowered at him, yanking his jeans up fast enough to give friction burns. Eager to leave now the mood had turned so sour.

“I have her number”

“What?”

“Mary…I texted my mum and she sent it, the Women’s Institute Committee, remember?”

“Don’t you fucking dare” John dived forward, arm lashing out to grab the phone from his hand. He cradled it to his chest and hissed, curling forward in defence. John drew back flushed and panting and sat on the end of the bed pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.

“Sorry…I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to scare you…just…I’m happy now Sherlock, with Mary and the babies…I …I just wanted to see you…I didn’t mean to drag this whole thing up again”

“Then why come here at all? Why say those things you said? You’re a fucking liar John, and the worst kind of bloody hypocrite….so Fuck You!”

Their eyes locked for a quick frantic second, until Sherlock broke and bolted for the bedroom door, he ripped it open and it snapped back quickly, catching John on the shoulder as he darted out behind him. Strong arms wrapped around Sherlock’s waist as he ran. And he stumbled, slamming down onto the concrete floor with a sickening thud, John half on top of him, pinning him in place using his extra weight to full advantage. Fingers scratched at his sides as John tried to prise his arms out from beneath him to get to the phone still clutched in his fist.

He couldn’t breathe, the air had expelled from his lungs as he fell and there was too much pressure on top of him now to draw a breath in. Greg stormed out of the kitchen, tea towel in hand and ready to tear a strip off him for making too much noise again, and never had a sight been more welcome at that moment than that grey-haired irritating arsehole.

“Don’t just stand there…Get him off me Greg, fucking kick him in the nuts for god’s sake”, he croaked out,as Greg looked on, not knowing if this was just another one of his sex games gone wrong, because that had happened more than once, when people didn’t follow the rules or got a bit handsy when they weren’t supposed to.

Trust him to hold back now, when it really was a fucking emergency.

John grunted on top on him, “Ignore the little cunt…he’s a thief…he’s trying to steal something from me and I _want….it….back”_.

Sherlock wriggled as John tried to get his hands underneath again, then pressed himself as flat as he could instead, because knowing John, he would try and flip him next.

“The wall”, he yelled at Greg, still standing there uselessly, “look at the wall in my room…go on…NOW!”

Greg flinched as he screamed out the last word, and it finally hit home. This wasn’t a game anymore. It only took a few seconds for the images on the wall and the scene on the floor to connect and register, then Greg was raging, standing over them both, disgusted and horrified.

“How old was he, you bastard, how fucking old?”

John: “Eighteen”

Sherlock: “Fifteen”

Greg’s face turned from red to purple, “Fifteen? My fucking nephew’s fifteen you evil little shit”.

Sherlock closed his eyes and braced in anticipation as Greg Lestrade drew his foot back, and three months of the most intense and torturous period of sexual frustration found its release, as he finally stuck the boot in like a fucking nuclear bomb.

 

~*~

 

The air was still thick and charged. Sherlock sat on the sofa, phone now cradled in his lap, the naked photo of John still lighting up the screen.

John stood by the door, back against the wall with a hand pressed tight to his ribs where Greg had hoofed him into next week.

Greg sat on the bean bag by the tv, turning the remote control idly in his hands, thinking.

“I can remember”, he said at last, breaking the awkward silence, “there was this bloke on the tele, I was twelve I think, just on one of the soaps, Corrie, and this bloke he took his top off, and you see back then in the eighties they never did that, and I sat there staring, thinking that someone would guess, could see what was going on inside my head. I was so scared. Of the man. I still am in a way. Men are fucking terrifying.”

He looked up at Sherlock, then over to John, twitching nervously in the doorway. He looked back and caught Sherlock’s eye again, nodding, “Send it”.

Sherlock pressed down his thumb and watched, as John’s naked cock and bare arse whooshed off into the ether.

It was done.

His head snapped up at the sound of the metal door downstairs as it clanged shut.

John was gone.

He snapped another picture, Greg this time, and smiled in satisfaction as his answer came through minutes later in the kitchen where Greg was brewing tea and rooting in the cupboard for the biscuit tin.

He tapped out a message and waited, the distant jingle of Greg’s old Nokia sounding muffled in the depths of his coat. Greg huffed in annoyance and left him in charge of the tea-bags while he crossed the room and fished it out of the inside pocket, staring at the screen like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“I got you a date”, Sherlock said smiling mischievously, “Saturday at six…you’re meeting here. It’s my brother Mycroft you’ll like him, he’s a miserable git too, but I sort of owe you one after all that”

“Cheers mate, thanks for the glowing recommendation” Greg said, accepting the mug that was pressed into his hands and taking a sip of the hot milky tea.

“No problem”, Sherlock smirked, taking a sip of his own and dunking a biscuit in, waiting till the tea soaked through before cramming it into his mouth, whole. “Oh, and he’s a top by the way”, he said through a mouthful of crumbs, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth before taking another, ”And I told him you’re a power bottom…I hope you don’t mind?”

Greg laughed, a deep throaty chuckle that came from his very soul. He looked younger, much less like a cranky old dad and more like a loveable, dopey big brother.

“How do you know that?”

“I guessed”.

“Bullshit Sherlock….you never guess”.

“I know”, he smiled crookedly as he twisted his mug in his hands and watched the dregs swirl, mixed with the crumbs from his biscuit. 

"Well if you ever want to talk..." Greg said, settling back against the sofa.

Soft brown eyes stared back at him, and the pain that he'd managed to push to one side, rose quickly to the surface again. 

He shouldn't have called, left the past where it belonged. Picking at old wounds never did end well.

"I did love him, you know. It wasn't always.... like that".

"And what's 'that' exactly...what I just saw? A dickhead who calls all the shots while you just do as you're told?" Greg shook his head in wonderment. "You're an idiot, if you think that's all you're worth." Greg reached across, and ruffled Sherlock's hair while he huffed in annoyance and pretended to hate it, slapping his hand away playfully.

"No over-night guests, I might get some sleep tonight, then." He winked, and rose from the sofa with a groan, padded to his room and closed the door to leave Sherlock alone again.

A muffled buzz from the depths of his pocket.

Sherlock pressed to reject it and finally let go.

No more sorry's. No more next times.

It was over, for good, on his terms.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
